Apple Pie Christmas
by GirlFromNorth
Summary: Sam and Dean try to celebrate Christmas in peace - it's got a mixed success rate. It would probably be easier without the neighbors. *set post-series*
1. Shovel talk

**Since I am a self-proclaimed dork, I decided to write a mini Christmas fic. This one is, for once, actually in drafts! Some of the other chapters have already been started on, so I might try (keyword is _try_ ) to update weekly. Anyways;**

 **This story is told from an OC's POV, but Sam and Dean are still the main characters (the OC is really just an obvious excuse to write about someone else's thoughts on the Winchesters). Furthermore, let me just say that "Tom" isn't inspired by or meant to be Jared's son - this character just kind of... turned out to be a Tom.**

 **It's set, what, about 30/40 odd years from the current season? In other words, Sam and Dean are a set of grumpy old men and, I'll admit, a tad inspired by two elderly sisters who live nearby. I mow their lawn every summer and I adore them (and their bickering) wholeheartedly.**

 **Warnings: Supernatural stuff, swearing, and bickering Winchesters.**

* * *

The Winchesters' driveway is completely buried under the snow.

There aren't any car tracks from the closed garage, or any foot prints leading to or from the house, which means they've barricaded themselves inside their house all day. Not that Tom's judging them; if he was a senior citizen he'd never go outside in this weather either, preferring to admire the winter wonderland from the cozy warmth of _inside_.

He leans against his shovel, putting his sleight weight of a thirteen year old body against it, and contemplates whether or not he should go knock on their door. He rakes an eye over their house, over the snow-covered garden that both Winchesters fervently fight to keep alive, over the apple trees that Tom himself has attempted to steal from every once in awhile _(sadly, the shorter Winchester is alarmingly watchful of his apples),_ and the shed that they've tried to keep hens in once or twice _(it's had mixed results, since the hens always manage to escape)._

Honestly, it's his history with the apples that make him hesitate.

With a mental shrug he hoists the shovel over his shoulder and pushes his way towards the door, carefully clearing his throat before knocking.

The man that answers the door is more than just tall; he manages to make Tom feel as though he's ten years younger than he actually is, and Tom's quite sure he has the same effect on grown-ups too. This is one of the Winchester brothers, Sam, but he can never remember who the younger one is and who the older one is. This one's hair is long-ish, silver locks curling at the nape of his neck and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses perches on his head.

"Hi there, Tom," he greets with a warm smile, his eyes crinkling and the lines in his forehead softening. "What can I do for you?"

"Hello, sir," Tom starts politely, jutting out his chin and subtly trying to straighten out every bone and stretch every muscle as much as possible, "I was just, um, I was wondering if you wanted your driveway shoveled or..?"

"Who is it, Sammy?" another voice bellows, effectively cutting off any chance of answering, and the warm smile slides right off Sam's face to be replaced by an exasperated roll of his eyes.

"It's Tom," he hollers back, "Ellie's kid."

"Well what does he want?"

"He's offering to shovel our driveway."

"Say what now?" the voice grumbles, followed by a few thumps and curses before the other Winchester brother appears in the doorway, lightly shoving at Sam in order to get to tower over Tom. His hair is another head of silver, albeit shorter than his brother's _(Tom mourns the chance to figure out who's older by looking at their gray hair)_ , and although he's still tall, he appears to be short next to Sam. Tom's smart enough to keep his mouth shut about that particular fact. Both of them are wearing flannel, which is to be suspected since Tom _never_ sees them wearing anything else except for on the hottest days of the summer.

"Yeah, thanks, squirt – we don't need any help shoveling," the brother, Dean, sniffs, "We're not that old yet, we can still lift a damn shovel –"

"Except for the fact that your knees give out nine times out of ten," Sam points out mildly.

"Sam, I swear to god…"

"Furthermore, I thought you were going to die five separate times hauling down our Christmas decorations, I'd rather not let you try to shovel any snow."

"Sam."

"I'm just saying, man – if it's not your knees, it's your back –"

" _Oh_ , buddy, you do _not_ want to bitch about _my_ back, mister _Constant Back Pains_ _since his late_ **_thirties_**."

Sam immediately turns smug. "Well, all the more reason for not shoveling our own driveway since, admittedly, we're getting quite wobbly in our old age."

Dean mutters a few choice words under his breath that Tom's sure his mother would tan his hide for, while Sam immediately sends Tom another warm, grandfatherly smile.

"Sorry, Tom; Dean's just a bit cranky. He likes to pretend that we're still young and in shape to be out there both chasing adventures and shoveling snow, instead of being the cranky old men we've become. We'd be very happy if you'd be so kind to help us out; Dean's going to get that poor car stuck in the snow any day now. You can come in later if you want to; do you want coffee, tea, hot chocolate..?"

"Chocolate sounds great," Tom says quickly, giving the man a beaming smile before racing towards the driveway, his shovel ready to be put to use. He figures Sam doesn't have to know that Mrs. Rogers next-door has already fed him an almost obscene amount of home baked cookies. Hey, who's he to turn down a perfectly good offer of free snacks?

It's freezing cold outside, and he's sure that he'd be frozen solid if he stands still for too long. He's already shoveled three driveways today, and he digs into this one in frenzy, eager to get his blood pumping and avoid freezing to death. The layer of snow lies heavy over the ground, and by the time he's finished he's sweating and his gloves feel soaked. The chill is rapidly seeping into his skin, and his fingers feel stiff and thick and like they don't really belong to him at all.

He sweeps a critical eye over the driveway before deciding it's good enough – the Winchesters' car is _ancient_ , and he'd rather not have them stuck on their own yard. Ignoring his numbing fingers, he quickly clears the path up to the house; old people appreciate someone taking initiative and doing some extra work _(as well as making sure said old people don't slip and_ _ **die**_ _)._

He skips up the steps and raps cold knuckles against the door, making sure to stomp his feet and get rid of as much snow as possible. He hears a muffled shout of "Come in!" and gladly follows that particular command. He hesitates briefly before stuffing his wet gloves in between a radiator and the wall, allowing himself a short moment of letting his hands rest against the heavenly warmth.

"Leave your shoes on the mat," Dean's voice hollers, and Tom quickly backtracks to leave his undeniably dripping shoes on the little welcoming mat by the door.

He can hear the elderly brothers bickering softly, and he follows their voices into the kitchen.

He's been in this house once or twice before, he thinks, several years ago. He's not entirely sure why he's been here, but he suspects it's got something to do with his sister and her quest to interview the neighbors. The brothers themselves haven't changed much over the years, but are rather a fundamental part of the town; something that has always been there, just like the church and the forests and the lake. The sun goes up in the east, water is wet, and you can always count on the Winchesters to be fighting each other every step of the way.

Sam's standing by the stove, the smell of chocolate oozing around him, and he looks up with a smile as Tom enters the kitchen. "Hey, Tom – you look freezing. Sit down at the table, will you?"

The last part, _will you_ , is lacking its characteristic warmth, a barb aimed at his brother who's also sitting at the table, a box of Christmas decorations spread out over it. Dean rolls his eyes with a heavy sigh before dragging the decorations into a messy pile in front of him.

"Have a seat, kid," he allows long-sufferingly while Sam pours them three mugs of cocoa.

Tom greedily accepts the offered mug and sighs in content as his finger curl around the warm mug.

"Thanks," he hurriedly says before taking a careful sip.

Dean snorts into his own chocolate. "Word of advice, kid; never accept anything else the guy tries to feed you. There's a reason I'm the cook – he might be able to brew a cup of coffee or cocoa, but that's pretty much it."

Sam throws his brother a withering glare as he sinks down in an empty chair. "Screw you, I cook," he mutters petulantly into his mug.

"Yeah," Dean agrees wryly, "eggs. With runny yolks."

"I make them that way on purpose. They're supposed to be runny."

"Supposed to be – kid, do you want your yolks solid or runny?"

Tom starts as he realizes that the question was directed at him, and hurriedly clears his throat. "Um, I – I guess both?" Well, actually he greatly prefers solid, but he'd rather not pick sides. And he doesn't want to offend any old people, his mother taught him better, thank you very much.

Dean, on the other hand, immediately gives Sam a smug look. "Well, that's the least honest answer I've heard since you said there's nothing wrong with your eyesight. Pay up, Sammy."

"Tom's allowed to eat his eggs however he likes them," Sam deflects good-naturedly, and deftly changes the subject before Dean can continue arguing about eggs. "How's school going, Tom? Anything interesting happening?"

"It's okay, I guess," Tom says, barely managing to bite back a grimace. "Geography's kinda cool. Mostly I'm just looking forward to the Christmas break."

"Understandable," Dean mumbles at the same time as Sam continues;

"Do you and your folks have any plans for Christmas, then? I haven't had the chance to talk to Ellie during the last week or so, but I think she mentioned something about you lot going on a trip?"

"Not really," Tom says, wishing he was better at small talk. "I mean, we _were_ planning to visit my aunt in Florida, but apparently that plan went to –" wait, maybe he shouldn't swear in front of old people, "…went down the drain. Now we're going to spend Christmas _here_ instead." Crap, maybe he should also refrain from bitching about his hometown to old people who live in said hometown.

"There's nothing wrong with spending Christmas at home," Sam points out, sounding mildly amused, but Dean seems to perk up.

"Hold on; Sammy, we could go on a Christmas vacation. Don't you make that face at me, you know it'd be fun. A road trip for old times' sake – come one, Baby needs it, she hasn't had a chance to properly stretch her wings in _forever_."

Sam gives the pile of Christmas decorations a doubtful glance. "I don't know, man, you've seemed quite exhilarated about celebrating at home, judging by your passion for those fairy lights."

"I'm getting the road fever. 'Sides, we haven't had any greasy diner food in years. I miss my greasy diner food."

"Listen, every time you so much as _look_ at a greasy hamburger your metabolism kicks the bucket. There's no way I'm spending Christmas locked inside a car eating fast food while you get every gastral illness possible."

Tom busies himself with taking a huge gulp of chocolate, pensively wondering if he ought to leave – his parents greatly prefer to be left to their own devices whenever they argue. Then again, these two communicate solely by bickering, so he supposes the same rules don't apply for them.

"Oh, I'll show you what to kick," Dean says under his breach while giving Sam the evil eye.

Tom throws a look at the clock before chugging the last of his drink and standing up. "Thank you very much for the hot chocolate, it was awesome, but I really got to go before mom starts knocking down doors. It's dinner time, so…"

"Oh for god's sake, boy, hold your horses," Dean snaps and roots around in his pockets. "Here," he says, holding out a ten, "good job with the shoveling – and don't walk around pretending to do it for free, Jesus Christ."

Tom can feel his face split into a wide smile as he accepts the generous award with a thank-you.

"Thanks again for the help," Sam calls after him, "Tell your parents we said hi!"

As soon as he reaches the hall and starts pulling on his jacket, he can hear their voices once again _("Damn it, Dean, we could at least have tried to be a bit more civil with the poor kid here", and "Oh, please, we were fucking civil enough")._ He chuckles quietly as he steps outside, making a mental note to ask his mom for some stories about the town's very own set of grumpy old men.

It's started to snow while he was inside, small flakes slowly twirling from the sky and Tom swears silently. With his luck all the driveways will be drowned in snow come tomorrow. Oh well – always a way to make more money; Mrs. Rogers will be well armed with cookies, and perhaps he can catch the Winchesters on a day where they don't try to bite each other's heads off.

He hurries home before it starts snowing in earnest, getting a warm hello from his mom and a heartfelt insult from his sister.

"Did you increase your income?" his mom asks, sounding amused as she putters around in the kitchen.

"Yep," Tom replies, popping the p. "I think the Winchesters did an okay job of subduing their fighting while I was there."

"Well that's a wonder," his mother chuckles as Tom skips towards his room – if he doesn't remove the money from his pockets he'll lose it before bedtime.

He flicks on the light in the stairway, only for it to flicker once, twice, before dying. Tom sighs heavily and flicks the switch multiple times just to prove a point, " _Daaad_ ," he calls, "the lights are dead again. I _swear_ we're going through lightbulbs faster than humanly possible."

* * *

 **Oh my.**

 **What could _possibly_ be going on with Tom? Flickering lights have _never_ appeared on the show before, _noo_ oope.**

 **So, as stated above, I've got the main plot thought out but I'm open for suggestions regarding mini-plots or filler-plots. 'Tis the season; I'm having an alarming amount of Christmas feelings already.**

 **If you have the time, please drop me a review - all feedback is appreciated feedback!**


	2. Weapons, Novels, & Unpleasant Neighbors

**Hugs to Kathy and the two Guests for leaving a review!** **To be fair, I was going to post this one yesterday, but I got busy with the midseason finale.** **I mean, this shit can't be good for my health (poor Winchesters who never gets to celebrate Christmas in a pleasant place). I'll refrain from ranting about that and just move on to...this.**

 **Woooo, filler chapter coming up;**

* * *

Tom's dad isn't overly fond of Christmas. He's never outright said it, but it's obvious enough if even _Tom_ managed to catch on to it pretty early on. He doesn't mind though, since that doesn't stop his mother from making them live out Christmas to its fullest.

The annual Christmas market couldn't have chosen a better day for it to take place; the weather is almost ridiculously perfect with its clear blue sky, the snow clouds having finally cleared, and the sun makes the young snow sparkle like thousands upon thousands of diamonds. It contrasts starkly against the dark evergreen trees, making them seem black instead of green, and the air is so cold it feels like Tom's nostrils are freezing over every time he draws breath. It's perfect.

There's free mulled wine _(without alcohol, duh)_ and hot chocolate at every other stand, carved Santas and reindeers and angels, Christmas wreaths and candy and caramel apples, and heaps upon heaps of knitted socks and sweaters and blankets, along with the random _(but painfully pretty)_ handmade knives in between. The Christmas market is, without a doubt, one of the best happenings of the year.

"…and there's no need to buy her another damn knife."

Tom's head swirls around on its own accord to peer in the direction of the familiar voice. Sam Winchester is impassively standing by one of the stands while his brother waves a carved knife in front of his face. To Sam's credit, he appears to be completely unfazed by the wild knife-swinging in front of him.

The salesman, on the other hand, seems to be on the verge of fainting – Tom supposes _"Senior citizen stabbed to death at Christmas stand"_ can't be very good publicity.

"Well I'm not seeing you coming up with any better ideas," Dean snaps, "So far your only suggestion has been more books."

"Books are practical. They make nicely shaped presents."

"There's a hell of a lot more practical applications for a knife than a novel – Jody goes up against a vampire, what would she rather have in her hand? Is she going to cut its throat with a _hardback_?"

"Why thank you, Dean, talk a bit louder, why don't you?" Sam says snidely, before lowering his voice to sulkily add; "Besides, it's not like she can decapitate anything with _that_ tooth picker…"

Dean stops his knife acrobatics in order to grin widely, "Says the guy who once took off a vamp's head with razor wire – man, that was –"

"There's a big difference between razor wire and tooth pickers," Sam remarks, but the edge to his voice has melted away. "Jody doesn't even hunt anymore," he continues as he plucks the knife from his brother's hand, but contrary to his words, roots around for his wallet. He gives the poor salesman a tight smile of apology along with the money – quite frankly, Tom's mildly surprised he lets them buy it at all.

Decapitating vampires? Either they're going a bit soft in the head or they played too much violent video games in their youth. Maybe both.

This is the part where Tom should be a good, well-mannered boy and trod away minding his own business, instead of sticking his nose into others'. But then again, he knows for a fact that he's hardly the only one occasionally eavesdropping and finding his source of amusement in those practically senile brothers.

He's heard good and bad about them; rumors ranging from lighthearted to downright mean, heard them be called _"those mad old Winchesters"_ in tones ranging from affectional to mocking and everything in between.

Well hell, Tom's never claimed to be a saint.

"…Claire always needs a new knife, so why don't we buy one for her?" Dean's currently saying, while Sam gives him a notably pained look.

"Agreed on that point, but why the hell can't we just give this knife to her instead of Jody?"

"Listen, man, we should have stopped doing couple gifts _ages_ ago, I swear to god, _every_ year it's the _same_ damn thing –"

"I'm _very_ well aware of that, thank you, you've tried to buy shotguns to Alex five years in a row now."

"What? She'll sure as hell have more use of them than –"

"She, just as Jody – hell, just as _us_ – doesn't hunt and you know it."

"And your point is..? Not hunting doesn't stop any friendly ghosties and beasties from getting into the house."

"You wanted to give her kids silver stakes for Christmas."

"And you wanted to teach said kids how to banish poltergeists, so maybe I'm just a bit **thick** , but I continuously fail to see your point."

"Right, because it's better to give little kids weapons; run along now, kids, go stab a werewolf in the – hello, Rose, how lovely to see you."

Rose, or Mrs. Rogers, the old lady next door, is giving them an extraordinary filthy look. Tom has a vague memory of his mother mentioning something about an old grudge between those particular neighbors.

"Lovely, I'm sure," she states sweetly, and Tom feels giddily surprised by the contempt in the kind old woman's eyes – Mrs. Rogers who's never ever looked as much as annoyed before. "Lovely is the day when the two of you finally move to a safely locked away residential home."

"Oh don't sweat it, Rose," Dean winks, "We'll move there as soon as you do, don't you worry; you won't get rid of us that easily."

"Oh, for god's sake," Sam mutters. "Sorry, Rose, we don't have the time to stay and chat today – present hunting is hard work."

"Indeed," Rose says, "Especially if said presents have to contain at least three separate ways to murder someone."

"Merry Christmas," Dean agrees and tips an imaginary hat at her, while Sam pointedly steers them away. Tom, less pointedly, sneaks after them.

"Man, I'm telling you," Dean gripes as he purchases several candid apples, waving one at Sam until he takes it, "if we had settled down in a _bigger_ town we wouldn't have had to deal with neighbors like Rose and her ass of a husband."

"There's no need to talk shit about the dead."

"All I'm saying is, it wouldn't hurt to dig him up and salt his ass to make sure he can't come back to haunt our –"

"See, this is the _exact_ reason why anyone in this town, the Rogers included, give us the stink eye."

" _No_ , the reason is that we live in the middle of nowhere where everyone knows everyone and you can't lose your sock without the neighbors knowing about it."

"As soon as we moved in we started carving so called _satanic sigils_ into everything we could find, it's hardly surprising the Rogers started thinking we were both Satanists and murderers."

"Oh, get your head out of your – hold on, Sammy, gingerbread cutters to the right."

As one, both brothers come to a truce in order to peer at the stand with said cutters.

"Tom," someone calls, and Tom jumps guiltily as he quickly turns towards his mom. Her cheeks are flaming red just as everyone else's, but she's got a cheery Christmas tree drawn onto the left side of her face _(courtesy of the facial art stand_ ) and Tom wants to _**die**_ a very quick death. Preferably before anyone sees her. She's carrying several bags of newly bought goodies, a pretty Christmas wreath under her arm, as well as an overly large supply of new lightbulbs.

"Your sister and I are ready to get going," his mom says, "Do you want to stay any longer?"

"Nah, I'm good," Tom quickly decides, knowing that his chances of getting another ride home are slim.

Behind him he can hear the Winchesters arguing about the morals behind rifle-shaped gingerbread and angels.

He spends the ride home contemplating whether or not he should ask his mother about the Winchesters – and their apparent belief in the occult. And their thought about firearms. Then again, there's no way to ask that without sounding judgmental, and his mom belongs to the type who says _"those mad old Winchesters"_ with absolute fondness.

If Tom's not mistaken, he thinks she's mentioned something about visiting them as a child.

As soon as they get home, Tom snags a lightbulb from his mom and skids towards the living room, and very pointedly drops it at his dozing father. His dad grumbles a bit and peers up at him from the couch.

"Lightbulb," Tom clarifies briskly.

"I've changed that damn lightbulb three times this week alone," he gripes, but long-sufferingly allows himself to be bullied away from the couch.

"The rest of us are too short to change it," Annie hollers from the kitchen, and their dad makes a face in his daughter's direction.

Tom skips up the stairway and rolls his eyes at his dad's slowness, only to stagger slightly.

For a moment he feels lightheaded, eyes unseeing, _(so, so cold),_ and he swears he can feel someone shove him in the chest, making him tip backwards and down, down, down the stairs, and he can feel an echo of terror right before _(his head cracks open, like an egg, his neck snapping, pain, pain, pain)_ –

Another set of hands catch him _(these ones blessedly warm),_ and he bends his head backwards to look up at his father's wide eyes.

Only… instead of looking exasperated or rebuking he looks terrified, squeezing his son's shoulders hard enough to hurt.

Tom squirms a bit until his dad lets go, face alarmingly pain and breathing shallowly. He opens his mouth to say something, but in the end he just changes the lightbulb and leaves without a word.

Tom doesn't think too much about it before he undresses for bed and spots a very distinctive set of hand-shaped bruises etched into his chest.

* * *

 **Again, leave a review if you have the time! :)**


	3. Meeting with the Spirit of Christmas

**Alas, final chapter for the mini-Christmas-fic! It's Christmas Eve, and I wanted to post this one the same day that it's set, whoops. Anyways, merry Christmas!  
**

* * *

Things come to a head on Christmas Eve.

Things worsen after the stair incident and finding the bruises on his chest; the lightbulbs explode on a regular basis, things constantly fall over, the stairway is bitingly cold no matter how much they tinker with the radiators, and none of them appears to get any sleep.

But on the night of Christmas Eve?

That's when Tom leaves his room for a midnight visit to the loo and is met by a figure blocking his path in the stairway. It's dark, and for a second Tom thought it was his father – that was before he saw the snapped neck and the hideous dead eyes staring up at him.

Tom had slapped a hand over his mouth and quickly, quickly stumbled backwards up the few stairs and barricaded his room, where he could hyperventilate in peace followed by climbing out his window.

That's how he, somehow, ended up banging on the Winchesters' door in the middle of the night, occasionally hitting their overly fancy Christmas wreath.

He doesn't recall the journey itself; all he knows is that he freaked the fuck out, and he didn't want his mother's frantic questions or his father's uneasy silences. And apparently he'd rather tell two grumpy, delusional old coots that he's scared of ghosts than to confess that to his parents _(or god forbid, his sister)._

Jesus, he sounds like a sniveling five-year-old.

"What the _fuck_ is it?" a voice finally roars from inside, and Tom falters for a moment before continuing, this time knocking a tad more carefully.

It takes a while before the door is thrown open, almost hitting Tom in the process, revealing a very pissed off Dean Winchester.

An old man dressed in plaid pajamas and a bathrobe and fuzzy slippers shouldn't be intimidating, but Tom's sure his face alone would be able to scare off a bear or two.

"Why the _ever-loving_ _fuck_ are you…" he starts before breaking off, eyes narrowing.

Tom figures he must look remarkably pathetic to make even this man's face soften marginally and stop shouting.

"What's going on?" Sam's hoarse voice calls from upstairs.

"Don't get your panties in a twist, Sam, just get your ass back in bed," Dean yells back, but is answered by defiant thuds in the stairway as Sam hobbles downstairs. Dean growls wordlessly but turns back to Tom, leaning down a bit.

"Do you want to come in or do you want to get frostbite?" he asks gruffly, already stepping aside and impatiently waving him inside. The door shuts behind them, and in the sudden warmth Tom realizes his teeth are clattering against each other.

"Come on, kid, talk to me," Dean prods, surprisingly gently. "Is everything okay at home?"

Well, now that he's here, Tom doesn't really know what he's supposed to say. Hey, wanna come over and play ghost hunters? He opts for giving him a helpless shrug.

He's lead towards the living room and pushed down in a couch, a plaid blanket wrapped around his shaking shoulders.

"There a reason to running around shoeless in December?" Dean asks and makes a tut-tut noise as they both look down at his white-tinted toes.

Sam wanders into the living room and takes in the situation without as much blinking, and wordlessly produces a pair of knitted socks out of thin air for him to put on. The socks are worn and frayed and warm, and about eighty sizes too big for him. At least they're not plaid, he reasons.

"There's a ghost in our stairway," Tom blurts out in the silence that follows, and immediately feels his face redden. Way to sound mature, buddy, way to go. "I mean – um."

The brothers exchange a look, which Tom doesn't even bother trying to transcript. He can see them doing a quick game of _rock paper scissors_ – Dean throws scissors and promptly loses.

"Damn it," he mutters and sits down on the low table in front of Tom. "Okay. Ghost in the stairway. Listen, if you're another kid who thinks this is a fantastic prank I will personally gut –"

"Dean."

"Ugh. Let's say you're not a prankster – what makes you say there's a ghost there?"

Tom stares at him. "There was a ghost. In the stairway," he says slowly, as though Dean's particularly stupid. "I saw it, it saw me, what more do you need to know?"

"What my brother's trying to say," Sam interjects, "Has anything been… off in your home? Any malfunctions with the electricity?"

"Um," Tom says, but he's seen enough horror movies to know lights typically start flickering when something bad is about to happen, so it's not that weird of a question. "Lightbulb keeps flickering, nowadays exploding. It's… cold. Uh, things… fall over?" Including Tom, who was pushed.

Dean stares at him, searching for something – whatever it is he's seeking, he seems to find it. He doesn't appear to be overly pleased with that discovery.

"We heading over?" Sam asks pointedly.

"Well, hell," Dean sighs, "We've driven across states for less. I figure we can walk over the street and check it out; the only thing we're risking is our reputation, which isn't very impressive to start with."

It takes approximately fifteen minutes for the Winchesters to leave their house, and about fourteen minutes for Tom to regret his decision to come here.

For one, they're so wobbly it's scary to watch them try not to slip on the ice-covered road – also, they're carrying shotguns. Badly hidden shotguns. And fire irons. And a bag of road salt they made Tom carry.

Outside his house, it feels more and more unlikely that there's a ghost in their stairway, god, what the hell was he thinking? Annie will have blackmail material on him for _life_.

"You got a key?" Dean asks lowly as they stand in front of their front door, looking at their own fancy Christmas wreath.

"He turned up at our house without shoes, what makes you think he thought of grabbing his keys?" Sam mutters and slides past his brother, slowly bending his long body until he kneels in front of the door, and… starts tinkering with their lock.

"Are you… are you picking our lock?" Tom asks carefully, doing his best to not sound as though he's seconds away from running screaming for the hills.

He's not graced with an answer.

They enter the house with something called an EMF meter that wails more and more the closer they get to the stairway. It obviously means something, as the Winchester share another bitter _look_.

Then, Tom's dad shows up, closely followed by Tom's mom, oh, and hi there Annie. Tom's not sure what the Winchesters expected – the wailing sound wasn't exactly _subtle_.

Tom's dad warningly points his dad at Dean, who raises his arms in the standard non-threatening gesture – it's rather inefficient since he'd holding the freaking _fire poker_.

"Hey, easy, there's no need to bash in your neighbor's head –"

"You could be the major for all I care; you broke into our home in the middle of the night!"

The drama about to unfold is interrupted by the timely appearance of the ghost in the middle of the stairs. But this time – this time he looks _mad_. In the blink of an eye he's at the bottom of the stairs, both hands wrapping around dad's throat as though to snap it, and Tom screams, Annie screams, hell, mom screams –

The fire poker is suddenly swept clear through the ghost, wielded as though it's a sword from an ancient myth _(or from one of the more awesome fantasy movies)_ and the ghost screeches as though burned as it disappears.

The awe-inspiring moment is more or less ruined by Dean's face contorting in pain as he bends down and clutches his free hand to his back.

"Oh Jesus fucking Christ, my fucking back, ah, motherfucking–"

Sam grimaces in sympathy and gives Dean's shoulder a comforting squeeze. "You alright, man?"

"I just fucking threw out my back, what do you think?"

"No you didn't," Sam retorts soothingly, "Believe me, I've seen you throw out your back – this time you'll be just fine."

"Fine my _ass_ , you pesky little…"

Sam doesn't bat an eye as the ghost reappears to their right, barely even looking as he fires a round of whatever-it-is in their shotguns. His face scrunches up at the recoil of the gun but doesn't hesitate to wave the family into the living room.

"Tom, make a big circle of the salt," he orders, and Tom's shell-shocked enough to obey without question _(actually, he's quite proud he's coherent enough to understand the command at all)._

By the time they're all safely standing inside the circle _(spirits are apparently repelled by both salt and iron – good to know for future reference. Spirits are already a bigger problem in his life than he'd ever expected them to be_ ), Dean's standing upright again but none of the brothers look happy.

Their unhappiness is undisguisedly aimed at Tom's dad.

"So, Josh," Dean starts sweetly, "anything you want to share with class?"

Tom's dad, still rubbing his throat _(that now bears matching handprints to the ones that marred Tom's own chest)_ blinks dazedly and takes a moment to answer the question. "I don't… what?"

"Cut the crap, Josh," Sam says, and Tom startles at his cold tone – it's a big change from his usual kind grandfatherly role. Actually, the brothers look at his dad the way Mrs. Rogers look at the Winchesters. "Vengeful spirits don't appear without reason – and it's not a coincidence that this one went straight for you."

"What exactly are you accusing me of?"

"Josh," their mom interrupts, a slight quiver to her voice, "that was – oh god, Josh, that was _Matt_."

"Such a shame Matt doesn't come around for Christmas anymore," Dean says mournfully, as Sam nods in agreement.

"Pity. We liked Matt."

"Haven't seen him in years, though – I gotta admit, I'm a bit hurt that he didn't keep in contact. Tell me, Sammy, when was the last time we saw him..?"

"Mm, I actually think it was during Christmas – you know that he used to spend Christmas around here. _Christmas Eve_ , if we want to be more specific."

"Yeah, yeah – like I said, such a shame he stopped visiting."

"Oh god," Ellie mumbles and presses a hand against her mouth. "Josh, what did you _do_?"

"I haven't done anything," their dad says, but even to Tom's ears it sounds weak.

"Right," Dean deadpans, "that's why dear old Matt is currently haunting your stairway. Something tells me something happened during Christmas all those years ago – it'd explain why he's been growing more active the closer we've gotten to the holiday. Hah – Sammy, are we dealing with a _seasonal_ ghost?"

"Dean."

"The Christmas spirit?"

"For god's sake, Dean."

"I'm just saying, man –"

"It's not Matt," Josh interrupts, "he wouldn't – he almost killed Tommy in the stairs. Matt – Matt wasn't like that – he wouldn't do that, to Tom _or_ me."

"What," Dean raises a disbelieving eyebrow, "you kill your brother and expect him _not_ to be pissed?"

"Pretty sure he didn't expect him to stick around and _be_ pissed," Sam remarks.

"It wasn't like that," Tom's dad says, but his shoulders are hunched and he's speaking to the floor. "It was – it was an accident, alright? I didn't mean to, but we were arguing in the stairs and I…" It's not particularly hard to fill in the blanks.

"Oh, _bullshit_ ," his mom shoots back, voice shrill and hands curled into defensive fists. "You don't – you don't _accidentally_ murder your brother and hide his _corpse_ in our home if you –"

She breaks off and Tom takes another step closer to his sister. His heart is beating too fast and it feels like the air is too thin, too far away, too cold _(well, he reflects numbly as his breath fogs in front of his face, the cold part was at least true)._

Tom's never claimed to be overly brave.

He squeezes his eyes shut the moment the ghost – his _uncle_ – reappears in the corner of his eye. He can hear his dad emit a pained, hitching sound at the sight and Tom fumbles for Annie's hand.

One of the Winchesters makes it go away again and he can hear them swearing lowly.

"Well Sammy," Dean says mockingly, "how's the retire going for us, huh?"

"Splendidly."

"Mmhm. And isn't this family wonderfully and utterly protected from the dark and nasty things that go bump in the night, protected by their blessedly innocent innocence?"

"I get your point, alright."

"Hmm, what a _joy_ we didn't buy those shotguns to Alex since she _clearly_ doesn't need any weapons since she's _retired_."

"Oh my god, will you let it go?"

" _Enough_!" his mother explodes and Tom dares to peer at his mother, red-faced and visibly terrified yet pissed as hell. "Misters, you will stop your bickering right this instance or so help me, I'll shove those shotguns up your asses. _What is happening in my home?"_

Dean sends Sam one last glare, but it has nothing against the naked disgust he sends towards Tom's dad. "Your home's haunted since good ole Josh over there is a fucking moronic killer who's into fratricide."

"Yes, thank you, I got that part," Ellie snaps, "Now what the hell do we do about it?"

"If it's a regular haunting," Sam starts mildly, "We'll just have to put him to rest by taking care of his… remains."

With this, both brothers give Josh a pointed look, whereas he goes sickeningly white.

"No," he says, "You're all crazy, I won't – No."

"Yes you will," Ellie hisses and digs a finger into his chest, "I don't see you coming up with any solutions to this, so you'll goddamn well listen to the only ones who _think_ they have their shit together."

"I won't –"

"Dad, for fuck's sake," Annie screeches, "There's a _ghost_ in our living room!"

Sam walks closer to Josh, subtly leaning downwards with an earnest look on his face, yet again looking terribly grandfatherly and awfully out of place in their haunted house. "Josh," he says softly, "if you don't tell us where your brother is, your family will die."

"Don't sweat it, Sammy," Dean drawls, "This guy obviously isn't bothered by being the death of his family members."

"That's not true," Josh snarls, "Think what you will about me, but don't you say that I don't care about my family."

"Yeah? Then prove it. And oh, if you buried him in the backyard, we're all screwed – Sam and I can't even shovel our own driveway anymore, much less dig up a frozen grave."

As it turns out, uncle Matt isn't buried in the backyard. From the whispered conversation Tom can make out that Matt's somewhere in the basement, hidden somewhere underneath the floor. Dean swears some more, before stating that they need help to get him out of there. Tom's dad point blank refuses.

"Coward or not, he's got a point," Sam reflects sourly, "Matt will be out for Josh's head; he'll bother us even more if Josh steps out of the circle."

"Josh is the one who put him there," Ellie pipes up with a smile so false it hurts to look at. "He'd better be the one who gets him out."

"One of us needs to stay with the kids," Josh states softly, and Ellie nods briskly.

"Yes. And I sure as hell ain't letting you stay alone with them."

Their dad flinches as though struck, before nodding meekly and leading the Winchesters towards the basement. After what feels forever, their mom has to go downstairs as well; two elderly men with aching joints and traitorous backs aren't much help when it comes to grave searching.

There's the occasional crash and bang from downstairs, but neither Annie nor Tom move an inch. The salt is safe; they'll stay with the salt, thank you very much.

They stay there until they can see the very first rays of the morning sun creep through the windows, so faint the light's barely even there, until their feet ache and their eyes burn, but they still don't move. One time during the night uncle Matt appeared outside the circle, but he did nothing but stare at them with his terrifyingly empty eyes. Tom doesn't have many memories of his uncle, but in the ones he has, Matt's always been cheerful and kind. Perhaps, he thought as he'd stupidly met the ghost's eyes, there was something left of Matt in there, as he didn't appear to give a damn about his nephew and niece. He was far too busy chasing down his brother.

Come dawn, they all stumble up from the basement, looking more or less whole.

Mom doesn't hesitate to stride forward and throw her arms around them – Tom's not sure how he should act towards his dad, so he opts for hiding his face in his mother's shoulder.

Sam and Dean carry out a hushed conversation yet again, something about police and something about evidence and something more about keeping quiet about the whole ghost business – Tom's not listening very closely.

He knows that the Winchesters stay for a while longer, keeping a watchful eye over Josh ("Normally we'd already be out of here"), while Tom and Annie occasionally nod off in the couch. Tom would rather stay away from his room and the stairway for a while, thank you very much.

The elderly brother linger at the couch, looking for something to say.

"Well," Sam starts with a weak smile, "Your help with the shoveling will always be welcome. And regardless of what Dean tells you, we'll need help with mowing the lawn as well."

Tom's not sure if they'll still live here come summer, but he appreciates the offer anyway.

"Don't you listen to him, Tom," Dean says as he reappears out of nowhere to stand next to his brother, "We're fucking fantastic. We can handle ourselves."

That, if nothing else, is something Tom does believe.

…He figures he, however, owes them both a couple of free shoveled driveways and mowed lawns.

* * *

 **Ta daaa.**

 **There it is! I ended up cutting away some of the scenes with the ghost, since I wanted to keep Tom as the sole story teller. Overall, I think this was very fun to write (even if the plot was an obvious excuse to write about bickering old Winchesters. I've developed a soft spot for them).**

 **Again, Merry Christmas! :)**


End file.
